


Let me down easy (but stay with me tonight)

by clandestinegardenias



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Getting Together, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, It'll get resolved in subsequent chapters don't worry darlings, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Monster of the Week, Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing a Bed, UST (is that still a tag?? Am I just old??? read on to find out!), a little bit of, mostly a chance to shove all my kinks in one place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22646476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestinegardenias/pseuds/clandestinegardenias
Summary: Jaskier slips away after a fight, heading straight into a blizzard. He's determined to stay away for good this time. Geralt is determined not to let him die of hypothermia and stupidity. A strange cabin in the middle of nowhere might be their salvation, but miracles come with a price...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 228





	1. Flight

**Author's Note:**

> In which it becomes obvious that a) I have watched The Witcher and fallen head over heels for these repressed darling idiots, and b) I've been reading a lot of Arctic exploration memoirs. 
> 
> To be completed in approximately three chapters, as I have time. Oh, that the world would pause. 
> 
> We'll earn the rating in later chapters. We gettin' that SAT-IS-FAC-TION, y'all!

A thick crust of ice crunches with every step Jaskier takes, his boots sinking deep into the layers of powdery snow below. The wind howls like a thing possessed, first swirling around his head so that his hair nearly levitates away from his scalp then abruptly shearing straight through his fleece-thrummed overcoat. It's a fickle thing, cold and laced with freezing drops of rain.

Jaskier can relate--he feels fickle himself.

His heart is beating softly yet quickly, fluttering like a bird struggling to keep aloft. How long has he been walking?

The fresh tears freezing in his eyelashes tell him it hasn't been long enough.

He trudges on.

The sun is beginning to set, so early in these depths of winter. The iron bar in Jaskier's chest, which had been hovering high up by this throat, has been lowering the more he walks, the farther away he gets. It's finally low enough for rational thoughts to start peeking through.

Soon, it will be dark. Soon, the cold squeezing him like a vice will become not only uncomfortable but dangerous.

He has few wilderness survival skills. Only those he has unwittingly picked up on his travels with G- …on his travels. He has no idea what direction he is traveling, if it's even been in a single cohesive direction. It would be just his luck to have been walking in circles, to suddenly come back upon the little campsite he'd snuck quietly away from.

The thought gives him the small burst of energy he needs to lift his leaden foot, drag it several inches forward, and crunch down though ice and snow. One more step. Several precious inches further away.

He continues on in this fashion, stubborn.

He's finally starting to feel warm, at least. Sure, he's not sure which of his feet is which, but at least they aren't so blessed cold anymore.

Still his tears fall.

In hindsight, he should have been concerned the second his thoughts allowed Geralt to slip in unattended.

Pressure in his throat, pressure in his eyes, as Geralt stalks towards him. Unnatural, golden eyes flash whip-quick with emotions, too fast for Jaskier to interpret, before settling on something feral. A thick finger presses into the plush layers covering his chest, spreading ice water from his heart toward his limbs.

At the same time, an embarrassing pull of warmth, as his hips tilt in towards Geralt's without permission.

" _You_ …" said with a snarl, and Jaskier's upper body leans back, forcing his lower forward for balance. The tops of his thighs just brush Geralt's, looming over him.

"…incompetent, _inconsiderate_ , fool _of a man_ …"

Jaskier is blessedly yanked from the memory by something warm and wet trickling down his cheek. More tears he thinks. The brief, piercing recognition that he's delirious suddenly hits him, allowing him to feel a moment of terror. Something is very, very wrong. He tries to hold on to that clarity. It seems necessary, important for some reason that he can't quite remember.

Is there something warm on his face?

He's having trouble orienting himself. Where is the horizon? It's too dark to tell, but he feels a crunchy, delicate wall in front of him. He presses gently and it gives, sending his mitten through to the other side. How curious. He attempts the maneuver with his other hand, with the same result.

His forehead now rests against the wall, and he seems unable to pull away. His heavy arms refuse to come back through, and Jaskier is not one for panic, but holy shit holy shit something is _wrong_ why is he outside? Is that snow? Something is coating his lips, and it tastes suspiciously coppery.

Is he _bleeding_? Where is Geralt?

He doesn't want to think about Geralt, but he can't remember why. What possible reason could he have for not wanting to think about Geralt?

The fact that Geralt barely tolerates him, reels him in close and then rejects him with vitriol. The fact that Jaskier always comes back, eventually. That his traitorous, easily-won heart seems so eager to sacrifice itself on the altar again and again.

Not this time. As much as it hurts to turn away, not this time.

He's had enough. Enough of pulling unwilling--even willing!--smiles out of Geralt. Enough of Geralt's callused hands fitting nearly all the way around his _damn waist_ as his lifts Jaskier down from Roach when the bard is swaying with drink. Enough of Geralt allowing him to _ride Roach_.

Enough of Geralt's protective, possessive arm around his shoulders to ward off vengeful husbands at balls. Enough of Geralt's warm breath on the shell of his ear, just stirring the wisps of hair on his nape, whispering low and deep,

"Must you flirt with the husbands even as they come to slit your throat?"

And Jaskier can nearly feel those sharp teeth, turns j _ust so_ , Geralt's arm following and turning their stance into an embrace, a close, warm little world all their own. He glances up at Geralt through his eyelashes, his coy smile practiced but the flush on his cheeks not, lets his fingers smooth Geralt's doublet, gently straightening his medallion where it hangs heavy, giving his mouth time to taste the words before he says them,

"Like feeling you growl," as he presses his fingertips harder against Geralt's chest, swearing his pinky is just brushing Geralt's nipple, and he can feel the "Hmm" rumbling through his palm as he dares to meet Geralt's gaze directly, swears he can see naked want being actively pulled back, restrained, and that's not what he wants, he wants to lean in closer, watch as Geralt's tongue slowly, so _slowly_ wets his lips--

Watches the way Geralt pulls away, shuttering his emotions and patting Jaskier's back as he turns and slips into the crowd…

"Why did you leave me?" he mumbles against the soft, worn leather of Geralt's winter jacket. It comes out stifled and cracked. He's being jostled uncomfortably, and the blood is rushing to his head. Possibly rushing down his head as well, based on the way his face feels sticky and somehow…clotted.

Where is he?

"Geralt?", a little louder this time, but no more comprehensible.

Nonetheless, the swaying stops. He feels familiar, strong hands around his waist as the world spins briefly. He expects cold, hard ground, maybe a table or a stiff straw tick mattress. Instead he feels soft, cradled. Warm.

"Jaskier!" Geralt is screaming, but somehow he still sounds far away. There's wind, Jaskier notices, and it seems to be snatching at his words.

He groans, nuzzles into the soft warmth against his cheek. Geralt is here. The feeling of safety he associates with the Witcher settles over him, and he begins to drift towards sleep.

"I need you to stay awake! Can you hear me? Stay awake! Jaskier!"

The last thing Jaskier hears before he sinks into the warm, dark waves is a soft, emphatic "Shit".

Then it's lights out.


	2. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ROCK and I am throwing confetti at each and every one of you. The biodegradable kind. Work is trying very hard to eat me alive but writing this fic is more or less single-handedly holding it back. Hoorah!

Hot cakes, slathered in melting butter. A small, sky-blue ceramic pitcher filled with thick, rich maple syrup. A dish of clotted cream; fresh strawberries in their late-summer prime. Sweet, _sticky_ fingers.

A steaming cup of hot chocolate, radiating heat.

He wraps long, musician's fingers around the mug (he's always been vain of his pretty, clever hands). The smell is phenomenal - the sugary drink burns the roof of Jaskier's mouth a little but settles pleasantly in his stomach, warming him from the inside out.

There's a fireplace with a roaring blaze somewhere off to his left, bathing the room in flickering light.

The wind whistles fiercely outside, banging against the thick log walls and shaking the glass in the windowpanes.

Jaskier shivers with delight, snuggles further under the covers of a truly magnificent bed. It's heaped with quilts in a rainbow of colors, fluffy comforters filled with goose down, and piled with soft silky pillows. Someone has warmed an iron on the coals of the fire, wrapped it in a sturdy blanket, and tucked it snugly into the bed near his feet.

It's by far the most luxurious bed Jaskier's ever slept in, though given his--ah, _experience_ with nobility it's not the nicest he's ever _been_ in.

Although come to think of it, he doesn't seem to be strictly alone.

He can feel a hand skimming sleepily over his ribs. A strong, large hand.

Scooting back just a little, Jaskier finds an equally strong, large body. The person behind him hums lowly, and the vibrations resonate through Jaskier's own chest. The hand moves from his ribs up his body, finds the little v of hair poking out of his nightshirt and gently _tugs_.

Jaskier's mouth is dry, his breathing uneven. He can feel an erection pressed against his lower back, long and thick and insistent. He experimentally rolls his hips against it as a pair of warm, dry lips brush the delicate skin at the back of his neck.

There's only one person this could be, right?

But it couldn't be, _can't_ be, it would be insanity. And yet…

He has to know. Even if it breaks the spell of warmth and peace and steadily growing lust, he _has_ to know. Rolls slowly over within the arms embracing him, catching sight of silver hair, sculpted features, warm golden eyes blown black.

His heart rate triples, trying to escape his chest. Geralt's is steady and slow as always, grounding him.

Those gorgeous arms gently pull him closer, as if he's something precious, something treasured and breakable. Something worth protecting. Chest to chest, hip to hip, and Geralt buries his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck, nuzzles there and inhales deeply, scenting him with a groan of deep, almost animal satisfaction. It shouldn't - _shouldn't_ be as attractive as it is. Their hips tilt towards each other, erections bumping hot and hard, then aligning through layers of cloth that are suddenly too heavy, too hot, too scratchy. He wants them off. _Now_.

Then a wet tongue laves at his neck and Jaskier nearly loses his mind, fingers clenching spastically in Geralt's shirt, hips making aborted, stuttering jerks that give him at once too much friction and not enough - it's everything he's ever wanted, a fever dream come true, a life-altering, slightly hesitant grind of bodies against each other.

Maybe Geralt will let him do this, then let him do it again and again, let him praise Geralt as he should be praised, kneeling at his altar, and isn't _that_ an image…

And maybe, just maybe, the most dangerous hope of all. That Geralt will never find him too much. Will never tire of him. Will never again send him away.

The salty taste of his own tears brings him back from his own thoughts, but something is different. Something's not right.

Geralt is still there, but further away and still as a statue, eyes fixed on something in the middle distance.

"Geralt?" Jaskier asks quietly, reaching across the distance for his friend, his love-

And all at once the pain hits him, an agonizing flare of acid heat burning the soles of his feet, forcing his perception inward so he feels trapped within his body. The iron - the iron in the bed is too _hot_ , it's burning him, his feet have caught on fire and it's spreading, it's crawling up his feet, into his ankles and now his calves -

His vision has gone black, and he reaches out for Geralt as the panic builds, hardly able to think through the searing pain of a million needles threading through his legs, pain that threatens to engulf him, hands grasping at air -

"Geralt!" he manages again, sounding terrified even to his own ears but he can't _help it_ , it _hurts_ , "Something's wrong, something's wrong with me, wake up, wake _up_ , where are you, it burns, _Geralt!"_

He jolts and gasps, in pain and confusion. His body aches everywhere but his feet; they continue to burn. He can't move. Everything is close and thick and hot, so very, very hot.

"Jaskier", and the sound of it is a cool balm to his mind. Geralt is here. He needn't fear. And yet the witcher's voice is not quite normal. Something is off, something is worrying him, and if it worries _Geralt_ it's sure as hell likely to worry Jaskier.

His fear spikes, and his sudden claustrophobia with it. He struggles, but he's constrained somehow, he can't tell how, his eyes won't open, and he's starting to panic, breathing getting away from him -

"Shh, shh it's okay, I'm right here, I've got you. We're in my sleeping bag. I'm warming you up. Don't worry, you're going to be fine. I'm going to get us out of here. Just breathe. In….and out…that's right, breathe with me Jaskier, in…and out…that's good, you're doing great sweet thing"

"I can't open my eyes. What - is something wrong with my eyes?" He's trying to sound brave, but a quiver in his voice ruins the effect.

"Shit. Your eyelashes are frozen together. Hold still."

Jaskier feels Geralt inhale deeply - can intimately feel the witcher's chest move against his own. Then a hot, close breath exhales over first one eye, then the other. His eyelids feel wet, and soon, warm.

"Don't try to open them yet. Wait a second. It's okay, I won't let you come to harm. I promise." Geralt's last words are so soft Jaskier can barely hear them, isn't totally sure they were even uttered, that they weren't some desperate invention of his brain.

Gentle fingers rub his eyelashes, his lids, massaging the ice away.

"Okay, try opening them"

Hesitantly, Jaskier tries. Geralt's eyes blur into view, just barely distinguishable where they're huddled inside the fur-lined leather sleeping bag, storm still raging around them. He experimentally blinks, then can't help a small smile. If anything Geralt looks more miserable. He leans in and Jaskier closes his eyes as Geralt's dry, cold lips brush each eyelid in turn - the softest kiss, a benediction. An apology, a tender begging of forgiveness.

Before Jaskier can decide whether he's ready to give it, his body seizes up in pain.

"Ah! Shit - I…hnnng, shit that hurts, fuck!"

Geralt holds him through the spasms, whispers calming noises into his ear and brushes the sweaty-cold hair away from his forehead.

An indeterminable amount of time passes. Finally the spasms weaken, become farther apart, and cease. Jaskier feels boneless, panting and exhausted. It's all he can do to nudge his head against Geralt's chest, tuck his nose into the warmth and try to come back to himself.

"We need to move. You need shelter. Do you think you can walk?"

All Jaskier can do is groan and shake his head no.

"Okay. Okay, " Geralt says, soothing and soft. If this is what it takes, Jaskier should nearly freeze to death more regularly.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, Jaskier next finds himself being carried. His head rests against his witcher's chest, strong arms cradling him. Despite Geralt's heat, he's cold again - down to his bones, the roots of his teeth. He aches with it.

"Cold", he whispers, but the shearing wind rips his words away into the night.

Sometime later, he again floats groggily towards consciousness, can vaguely hear Geralt yelling over the storm.

"Stay with me! You hear me, Jaskier, you bastard! Don't you dare leave before me! Fuck. FUCK!"

He'd like to be reassuring, but he can't seem to form words. Furthermore, he's not sure there's anything to be reassuring about. He's quite sure, now, that he's going to die.

They're miles from nowhere - he knows, he walked there himself! - in the middle of a driving storm. His body is giving out, and Geralt can only keep him alive with sheer willpower for so long. It's been a decent life - plenty of good food, song, and company. He wishes he could have had longer with Geralt, but all in all it could have been worse. He makes his peace with death, and lets the darkness take him.

Which is why it's such a surprise when he next wakes up in a small bed, covered with threadbare blankets, heated by a roaring blaze from a small, dirty little fireplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight liberties taken with hypothermia symptoms because it is MY RIGHT as an AUTHOR


End file.
